


in your head

by descents



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Women in the NHL, they're cis women here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:02:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26352355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/descents/pseuds/descents
Summary: Brock’s pretty sure that what she’s doing might technically be described as “gazing.”They’re linemates, Petey’s a rookie phenomenon, none of the men working as journalists or coaches or analysts around the league feel the slightest reluctance in scrutinizing her physically, practically vivisecting her — but still Brock feels like she doesn’t have the right to look.
Relationships: Brock Boeser/Elias Pettersson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 64
Collections: Hockey Femslash Fest





	in your head

**Author's Note:**

  * For [korechthonia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/korechthonia/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [korechthonia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/korechthonia/pseuds/korechthonia) in the [HockeyFemslashFest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/HockeyFemslashFest) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Halloween 2019

_October 25, 2019_

  
Brock’s not a huge fan of “Zombie” — she loves a throwback jam, but she’s more of a Maroon 5 kind of girl — but the team’s having a good time, so she’s not complaining.

The fall-themed cocktail bar Tanny’s fiancée set up on the kitchen island has deteriorated into a slap cup arena, and Brock really needs another drink. She swipes a handful of individually packaged Halloween Reese’s Pieces (“Spooky Shapes!”) out of the trick-or-treat bowl on her way to the garage.

She finds Petey standing in front of the beer fridge, holding her enormous plush donkey head against her leg.

“This shit is kind of depressing,” says Brock, head in the fridge, as _your tanks, and your bombs_ vibrates, muffled, through the inner door of the garage.

“I don’t know, I don’t really listen to the words,” says Petey. Her cheeks are flushed — from the heat of her costume, and the vodka soda she’s just finished. 

Brock laughs and hands her a White Claw from the fridge. “Here, try this.”

Petey stares at it, dubious.

It’s kind of become their thing. She’ll try whatever Brock suggests, trusts Brock’s recommendations, even when they’re an objectively tacky Canadian hard seltzer that’s basically just bitter juice. Whatever. White Claw Summer.

“I don’t like mango,” Petey says.

“Oh.” Brock switches it with a grapefruit.

Petey cracks it open and takes a sip. “Oh, this is weird. But it’s... good?” The sleeve of her costume falls around her elbow.

Brock reaches out without thinking. The material is plush against her fingers. “Dude, this is really soft.” 

She rubs the fabric over Petey’s upper arm, scrunches it in her hand — then thinks better of it, and pulls her hand away in what she hopes is a discreet and definitely not panicked motion.

Petey holds the head out to her. “Want to put it on?”

Brock puts it on. As soon as her face is hidden, she rolls her eyes at herself. She goes to throw out the first empty Reese’s wrapper, and almost falls plush-head-first into the pile of empty orange juice jugs in the Tanevs’ blue bin.

“Oh my god,” she says, laughing. “Shit, you really can’t see out of this.” The sound of her voice is muted even to her own ears. She takes the head off.

Petey’s laughing too, her eyes crinkling at the corners like they do when she’s scored a beauty goal. Her hair is an absolute disaster, a wispy blonde halo. Brock wants to make her look like this all the time. 

Petey gestures at Brock. “Your costume — it really fits.”

Brock only ever saw the first Shrek, so she doesn’t really get what the big deal is. But Thatcher picked out all the costumes and had forcefully insisted.

“Thanks.” She strikes a stupid pose to make Petey laugh, and runs a hand through her hair to revive the front. 

She gives the head back and eats another one of the Reese’s Pieces for something to do with her hands. There’s an oil stain on the concrete floor of the garage from Tanny’s car, and Brock’s standing with her dumb pleather costume boots right in the middle of it. She scratches the bare back of her neck.

“I don't know if I've had those,” Petey says. Brock holds one out. 

Petey bites cautiously into the pumpkin-shaped peanut butter cup, holding her hand under her mouth.

“This is disgusting,” she says.

“Wow, don’t hold back,” says Brock. “Tell me how you really feel.”

Petey laughs. “It's really not good. You can have the rest.” She lifts the uneaten half to Brock’s mouth. 

Brock freezes. 

“Um,” says Petey, sounding faintly surprised.

They’re close enough to touch. Brock can feel the heat from Petey’s hand on her face. She could lean forward and put Petey’s fucking fingers in her mouth.

She’s been trying to avoid dealing with this for almost a full year; she’s not about to stop now.

//

_February 20, 2019_  
_Ballroom, JW Marriott Parq Vancouver_

  
Brock’s unfocusing and refocusing her eyes on her beer glass as Petey chats with the children’s hospital board member across the linen-draped table. 

“Yes, exactly, I think this event is a great opportunity to give back,” Petey’s saying.

“It’s so nice that you’ve all taken the time through the year, too, to come visit the kids. I know your schedule is so busy.”

Petey smiles. “Thanks, yeah. We had a fun time a few months ago — we met some young fans on a visit to the — Canuck — children’s — um —” She looks over at Brock for the word.

“Hospice,” Brock supplies. Petey nods and goes on.

A server offers them small plates with some confection of radicchio and blue cheese.

Petey shakes her head delicately. “No, thank you.” She’s great at these events, has fancy table manners that Brock’s never bothered to learn, shit like what direction you’re supposed to move your spoon when you’re eating soup, but she’s a sneaky picky eater.

Brock cuts off a tiny piece of the appetizer with her steak knife and slides it onto Petey’s plate. She raises her eyebrows. “Try it?” 

Petey does, and makes a face at Brock behind her fork. Brock laughs into her beer.

The board member whose name Brock is trying to remember — Lucy? — no, Lisa, that’s it — asks for another glass of white, and starts talking to Brock, who manages to hold the conversation with about half of her attention. The rest of her is focused on trying not to look so obviously at Petey that she’ll notice. 

Brock’s pretty sure that what she’s doing might technically be described as “gazing.”

They’re linemates, Petey’s a rookie phenomenon, none of the men working as journalists or coaches or analysts around the league feel the slightest reluctance in scrutinizing her physically, practically vivisecting her — but still Brock feels like she doesn’t have the right to look.

Here’s the thing: Brock’s seen Petey dressed up in her Givenchy game day suits plenty, but she’s never seen her in a dress. 

Petey’s wearing something long-sleeved and columnar in black velvet — “It’s Gucci,” she’d said to Marky earlier in the evening, not that Brock had any good reason to remember that information — which looks simple, but drops low in the back and is edged with crystals which sparkle in the dim light. 

She has a very couture-dress body, long and angular like a runway model. From beside her, Brock can see the jut of her spine and shoulderblades, the slight red mark on her pale skin from where she’s been leaning on the back of her chair.

Brock’s wearing a black suit her mom insisted she get tailored, and a silver plaid tie. She thinks she looks pretty nice. Her hair’s maybe getting a bit long, but she hasn’t had time to get it cut.

The rest of the meal is grilled salmon (Petey eats most of it), a sorbet palate cleanser (Petey eats it), and salted caramel panna cotta (Petey avoids it).

“Well, you ladies are lovely; thanks so much for being here,” says Lisa when dinner’s over, and heads off to mingle elsewhere.

Brock’s working on her second beer. They’re supposed to head over to the photo booths. She turns to Petey. “Want to go get smoothies after?”

Petey shrugs and nods. Brock sees the barest hint of a smile. She gets up, clasps Petey’s cheeks between her hands, and smacks a kiss on the top of her head, overwhelmed with cheerfulness. Then she ruffles Petey’s hair, just to piss her off, and gets a disgruntled look as Petey smooths it back down.

Brock finds the photo booths as eventful as usual: strategically positioning herself to avoid getting felt up, fending off well-meaning comments about her point production without the Sedins, trying to hear what people are actually saying over all the noise.

They share a booth, Petey absolutely ragging on her the entire time.

Twenty minutes in, Brock jumps up and heads to the front of the line to hand a lady back her dropped bag. 

As she turns back to get on her chair, Petey grabs her shoulder and pulls her in. “Oh, you want a photo with me? Of course! I’ll even sign it for you. You can sell it on eBay.” She looks absolutely thrilled with herself.

“Yeah, maybe to your mom,” says Brock. This gets her a laugh.

In high spirits, Brock leans her head on Petey’s shoulder for the next photo. Petey looks a bit startled, and then gives her a tiny grin.

//

_September 13, 2019_  
_Save-On-Foods Memorial Centre, Victoria_

  
If she hadn’t wound up with the career she’d wanted when she was six, Brock would probably never enjoy the back-to school feeling that comes with September. 

Fall just isn’t Brock’s season. She lives for summer — long hot days at the lake, snapbacks, muscle tanks, jorts, snaking the motorboat so her friends fall off the inner tube.

She sees Petey in the parking lot on her way into the arena. Petey’s peacoat is buttoned all the way up to her neck. She looks like she should be riding in on a horse or something, like a noble lady touring her estate. Her fine, blunt-cut hair just grazes her collar.

Petey is a winter creature. The beginning of the hockey season is where they meet in the middle.

Petey doesn’t say anything as they walk in, just gives Brock a tense nod. Brock wants to give her a hug, but Petey’s not much of a casual hugger, so she settles for a shoulder nudge.

“What, Calder, think they’re going to cut you on the first day?” 

Petey gives Brock a flat look, but nudges her right back.

They lace up in the cramped Victoria Royals locker room, stalls overflowing with both the regulars from last season and a bunch of hopefuls. Coach Green gives them a pep talk, extremely animated as usual. “I know everyone here is excited to get going,” he says, poker-faced. “If you’re not, you’re probably in the wrong room.”

“Oh, shit,” says Roussel, getting up as if to head for the door, and the guys laugh.

Brock looks over at Petey as she’s tying her skates, and her eyes get caught on the divot where Petey’s shoulder muscle meets the bone. She’s only wearing her sports bra, and Brock can see her pale stomach, veins blue under her skin, a very faint dusting of golden hair on her arms where it’s illuminated by the fluorescent lights. 

Petey’s put on more muscle since last year, Brock can’t help but notice. Brock’s always been built — not as tall as some of the guys, but sturdy. Petey has always been small and delicate, in much the same way as a scorpion. Spindly, austere. Now she’s looking… grippable. Brock wants to press her thumb into the dip of that shoulder muscle.

She for sure doesn’t usually pay this much attention to her other teammates’ shoulders. She whips Petey with her Under Armour shirt to take her mind off it, and Petey gives her a grumpy hip check in the doorway out to the rink.

Not even five minutes after they get on the ice to scrimmage, Petey whips her a pass like she’s basically already scored the goal for Brock, and it goes in, smooth as butter.

Brock’s laughing. She feels out of control. She’s never been more in control in her life. Petey scrubs her glove over Brock’s visor as Brock tries to put her in a headlock.

“Fuck off,” yells Thatcher. Brock gives him a little salute.

Off the next faceoff, Petey takes a borderline knee-on knee hit in the neutral zone from some nobody who will be spending the year in Utica. 

Brock feels a rush of protective rage. She gets right up against the kid’s ear as the rest of the guys move in. “Hands off.”

“Oh, god,” the kid’s saying. “Sorry — sorry —” so maybe he’s not as dumb as that hit was — and Petey smiles up at Brock, unexpectedly sweet.

“I’m good,” she says. 

//

_September 22, 2019_

  
Petey comes over after practice, just like she said she would.

Brock’s knee kind of hurts, so she’s abandoned the couch and is sitting on the floor to stretch out her leg, idly playing PGA Tour.

She’s on the seventh hole at Sawgrass, a tricky par four, when Petey opens the door. She leaves her coat and bag on one of Brock’s bar stools — a large golden ring dangles off of the bag’s front clasp, which Brock knows means some designer or other but can’t place it. Petey gets herself a vitamin water out of Brock’s fridge and sits down on the couch, legs beside Brock’s head.

“Hey,” says Brock, leaning her head back on the couch cushion.

“Hey,” says Petey. She pats Brock on the head, in that absent way she has where her hands seem to be suddenly unfamiliar to her, and then just kind of… leaves her hand there. It’s a normal, friendly gesture. Brock concentrates on how completely normal and usual it is.

Then Petey presses Brock’s forehead back with her hand so Brock can barely see her TV screen, just as Brock’s teeing off on the eighth. 

“What the hell,” says Brock, missing her shot wildly. Petey laughs. She doesn’t let go for a good few seconds. Brock feels dizzy.

She lands in the rough twice, accidentally picks her sand wedge instead of her 8-iron, and ends up with a triple bogey. She puts the controller down without saving that particular game. “Let’s watch a movie.”

Petey nods, chewing the side of her thumbnail. She’s pulled her knee up to sit perched on the couch like some kind of bird. “What movie?”

“I don’t know. The new Terminator’s coming out. Want to rewatch the old ones?”

“I’ve never seen any of them,” says Petey.

Brock throws her hands up. “What? You have to see at least T2, dude, it’s a classic.”

Petey makes a skeptical face.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” says Brock.

“I might fall asleep,” says Petey. “I had to take a muscle relaxer.”

She does, in fact, fall asleep an hour in, curled ever so slightly into Brock’s side.  
  
Petey so rarely looks anything close to _soft_ , but here she is in Brock’s apartment in her team hoodie and grey joggers. Brock looks down at her the bow of her lips, the light fall of her hair. She wants to drag her fingers over Petey’s scalp, right above her ear.

She gets up off the couch before she does something decidedly not bros, like sniffing Petey’s hair.

Petey wakes up as Brock mutes the TV for the credits. “Can I stay and nap here for a bit?”

“Sure,” says Brock, giving her a hand up. The skin of her wrist is unbelievably smooth and soft. Probably some kind of fancy expensive moisturizer. Petey leans into her for a split second as she gets to her feet. “What did you think?” Brock says.

“Kind of dumb,” Petey says, then shakes her head with a bit of a smile. “Sarah Connor was hot.”

“Yeah,” says Brock, feeling something unbearable.

//

_October 5, 2019_  
_Sheraton Eau Claire, Calgary_

  
Brock’s efficiently getting herself off in her hotel bed in the twenty-minute window she has between when Troy Stecher gets a second beer downstairs and when he decides he wants to come to her room and play Chel 20. 

She thinks about her girlfriend from sophomore year of college, the shock of reaching up her skirt to find she was already wet, touching her inner thighs — which somehow morphs into touching the inside of Petey’s wrist, warm and silky — her mind raises the uninvited image of Petey and her lean legs leaning over Brock’s counter, the curve of her ass slipping out of her dolphin-cut red athletic shorts, a sliver of stomach showing under her cropped shirt.

She pauses and squints at the ceiling. The smoke detector blinks red. _Does_ she want that?

It’s not that deep, Brock decides. She just wants to get off quickly and go get ready for bed.

And she just wants to stroke up over Petey’s soft lower stomach under her shirt, touch her slim hips and wiry shoulders, wants Petey to keep bringing her takeout Pad Thai like she did when Brock was recovering from her fucking preseason concussion, wants to pretty much always be around her, making fun of her and laughing at her jokes.

Brock washes her hands and looks at herself in the mirror for a long minute. 

What’s sad is Brock really doesn’t hook up that much at all, has nothing to get her mind off this. She likes sex, sure, but she had enough of one-sided relationships and casual hookups at UND. She went out to bars and was on apps and stuff a bit more in her rookie year, but she’d really rather have someone who can stick with her and handle the schedule rather than a string of intense texts from people she’d have to fly halfway across the country to see. Kind of trashes any possibility of forming a real relationship. Probably why so many of the guys on the team are with people they met before they made it to the show.

It would maybe be less of a big deal for her to date Petey compared to any of the boys dating a teammate, like — everyone expects female athletes to be lesbians anyway. Less threatening to the masculinity of the sport than two male players dating or her dating and quote unquote distracting a male teammate. But it would still feel a bit demeaning. All the media attention, all the PR meetings, all the people smugly declaring they’d somehow known it all along.

Stech comes back just as usual, with Adam Gaudette.

They’re halfway through a match, playing threes as themselves, when Brock says, cautiously, “What would you do if you thought someone else in the league was like — uh, you know, into you?” She thinks she’s put it pretty cleverly.

Stech pauses the game, looks at her for a long moment with a frown. “Is this some media story we’re supposed to know about? What happened?”

“No,” says Brock. “I mean, just like, why do you think there haven’t been any public relationships within the NHL.”

“Well, just hypothetically, because I’m fully spoken for,” says Gauds, “I’d go for it. No reason why not.”

“You’d always go for it,” says Brock.

“It’s a fake question! I just mean, dating someone from the league… assuming you’re into them too… ”

“Yeah,” says Brock.

“It would probably be good because they know what it’s like. But, I don't know, it would suck if you got traded to the other side of the country.”

“Also just not wanting the publicity, I guess,” says Stech.

“Yeah,” says Brock again, and drops the subject.

//

The thing is, Brock thinks that — just maybe — Petey’s looking back. 

//

_October 25, 2019_

  
She drinks too much, almost falls asleep on Tanny’s couch in her polyester velvet doublet. Petey drives her home. She doesn’t say much until she’s walked with Brock to her door. Brock throws her keys on her counter and flops down on her couch.

“Were you avoiding me? Tonight? Did I — do something wrong?”

Brock stares at her. “No!” she says. She’s so tired and out of it she can literally barely form words. “No! God!”

“So what was it?” It’s been probably a few minutes. Brock has a feeling this isn’t the first time Petey has asked her this.

Both horribly aware of what’s she’s saying but also blissfully free from conscious control of her mouth, Brock mumbles, “I just — I don’t want to fuck anything up. But — I think about you.”

“You think about me,” echoes Petey.

Brock is literally half-asleep or maybe already asleep so more likely than not it’s just a dream when a full minute later she hears, “I — think about you too.”

Brock wakes up with a blanket draped over her on the couch.

//

_October 20, 2019_  
_Madison Square Garden_

  
“What’s up,” says Brock, hanging her full weight off of Petey’s shoulders from behind to try to get her to drop. Petey endures this stoically.

It’s absolutely boiling in the hallways below Madison Square Garden. It’s an old building, so they probably can’t do anything about it, but Brock hasn’t been able to get dressed yet beyond a warmup t-shirt. 

A couple of the guys are down at the end of the hall, trying to jump high enough to get their soccer ball down from the cluster of pipes along the ceiling.

Brock still has a loose hold around Petey’s neck. Petey rolls her shoulders. “Get off me.”

Brock does. “What, you wanna go?”

Petey gives her a challenging look and spins to drive her head into Brock’s stomach.

Brock goes for a pin immediately, hands around the back of Petey’s neck. 

Brock’s got thirty pounds on her, but Petey is both wily and stubborn. She gets her hands in the way, blocking Brock out by the shoulders, and ducks her head under Brock’s arm to try to pull her off balance. Brock drops to her knees, trying to get her arms around Petey. 

Petey’s writhing like a fish. Brock finally grabs her behind the knees and muscles her to the ground. They’re both laughing out loud.

All of a sudden Petey’s just lying between Brock’s thighs under her, limp and perfectly content, face flushed, strands of baby hair sticking to her temples and neck. She looks up at Brock, bright-eyed.

Because Brock’s become some kind of Elias Pettersson fucking field naturalist, she notices Petey’s eyes slide to her lips for the briefest second.

“I win,” says Brock, and gets up, dusting off her knees.

//

_October 22, 2019_  
_30,000 feet over Michigan_

  
Petey falls asleep on the plane.

Brock watches her from an aisle down, her head back, neck on display. She looks at Petey’s socked feet tucked up on her chair. She wants, suddenly, to touch them, stroke her thumb along each arch, work out the tension in the ball of the foot.

She doesn't even know if Petey’s fucking gay. She thinks, probably. But she doesn’t _know_.

She sees the glimmer of Petey’s eyes opening. They come to rest on Brock, as iron to a lodestone. Petey gives her a small smile and closes her eyes again.

“What the hell are you thinking about?” says Suttsy. Brock looks over with a start. He’s raising his eyebrows at her from the small blind. “Are you in or out?”

Brock taps the table to call, on autopilot, then remembers to actually look at her cards. She loses four hundred dollars to Josh Leivo before they land.

//

_October 25, 2019_

  
“B’s being capped,” says Jake in her ear.

“On it,” says Brock, heading to the capture point around a bunch of mazelike shipping containers.

“Can I talk to you about something?” she says.

“Yeah, is it how much you suck at this game?”

Brock ignores him. “How do you think people would feel if I started dating someone else in the league? Like, you guys, the higher-ups, just generally.”

“Why do I have to be hearing about this,” says Jake. Over Brock’s headset, she hears his recon drone going up.

“Uh,” says Brock. “What, are you some kind of homophobe?”

“No, I support you or whatever, it’s just you and Petey are like my sisters. I don’t want to hear about it.”

“Petey? I didn’t say —”

Jake laughs and shoves a handful of chips in his mouth. “No, you just talk about her fucking constantly.”

“Stop eating those,” says Brock. “I’m trying to hear footsteps.”

“Oh, are you about to actually contribute to this match?” says Jake, crinkling the bag.

“Shut the fuck up!” says Brock, as she gets headshotted with a 725 from someone lurking behind a shipping container and is suddenly spectating Jake hiding behind a burned-out car as she waits to respawn.

Jake’s laughing at her. Through her headset he sounds about fifteen years old. “Dude, the shotgun?”

Brock mutes him.

“So… you and Petey,” says Jake, a few minutes later, as they’re both looking at the load screen.

Brock rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling. “There’s no ‘me and Petey.’ This isn’t about Petey. Are you going to answer my actual question.”

“It’ll be fine,” says Jake. “I don’t think people will get on your case or anything. All the women’s hockey players marry each other and no one sees them any different.”

“It’s a different amount of attention,” says Brock. “But yeah. I don’t know. Maybe it would be. Worth it.”

Jake makes a disgusted noise and opens another bag of chips.

//

_October 26, 2019_

  
Brock wakes up hungover, mouth feeling like she’s been gagged. There’s a knocking sound that isn’t part of her dream.

Petey’s at her door. 

Not many people look at Petey and think, _cosy_ , but apparently Brock does now. She’s in an old cropped zipup from lululemon, faded khaki with bobbles on the fabric from being washed again and again — kind of hideous. Brock wonders what kind of morning she had had before deciding to come over.

“You look terrible,” says Petey.

“Yeah, I’m all right,” says Brock, aiming for a smile. There’s a silence. 

“Look, about last night — what I said,” says Brock. “I didn’t mean anything — like, I would never —”

“You didn’t mean anything,” says Petey. Her hands are stretching out the pockets of her hoodie. Through the fabric, Brock can see the outline of her knuckles.

She feels a bit nauseous, but it might be the hangover.

“Yeah. I’m — I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to make you — uncomfortable or anything. We’re friends, right?”

“Yes, we’re friends,” says Petey slowly. “I just thought maybe —”

Brock waits.

“I —” Petey gestures helplessly. “Maybe I didn't want it to — not mean anything.”

“You mean you don’t — you’re — you —” says Brock, who has suddenly lost the ability to string words into sentences.

Petey meets her eyes. Brock feels her heartbeat down in her fucking stomach. Some cosmic force is pushing her forward.

“Just — tell me if I’m — way off, here.”

Petey has a tiny, tiny smile on her face. “Try it.”

Brock kisses her. Petey’s hands come up to grab Brock’s arms. Brock opens up her mouth, slowly. She touches Petey’s ears, her neck, runs her fingers through her sleep-mussed hair.

They separate. Brock looks at Petey’s flushed cheeks. Petey pushes her forcefully against the fridge. Her tongue is slick and hot. Brock feels blood shoot all the way through her.

Brock finally, finally, cups her hand around the curve of Petey’s stomach, pulls her shirt up. Petey yanks her own zipper down. She’s not wearing anything underneath. 

It’s a little surreal, like, oh, hello, my friend’s tits, right there, in my face — but Petey has the same overwhelmed expression on her face as she did when they wrestled. She has tiny, adorable nipples, not that any specific part of Petey is any more adorable than the rest.

Brock really wants to be on top of her. “Can we —” she says, tilting her head towards her bedroom. 

Petey nods, laughing, and sheds her hoodie off her arms on the way down the hall. Brock’s wearing a sports bra that has to be taken off over her head and just manages to do it before they get into her bedroom.

Petey hovers for a second over her bedside table, fiddling with something, and Brock realizes she’s taking off her disgustingly expensive watch. Horribly, even this is sexy.

“Can I take these off?” She touches the waistband of Petey’s leggings. Petey throws an arm out to the mattress to steady herself. “Yeah, here, lie down.”

She traces over Petey’s lower back, grips her thigh in one hand as she gets on the bed. Her hand goes almost halfway around. Petey’s skin is so warm.

“What do you like? Tell me.” Brock feels feverish, hot.

“I — don’t know,” says Petey. Strands of sweaty hair are stuck to her forehead.

Brock’s going to literally die if she doesn’t get her mouth on Petey fucking immediately.

“Is this okay?” asks Brock. Petey nods as Brock moves up to lick at Petey’s nipples, her soft little tits. Petey’s fingernails press into her shoulderblades.

“You’re so warm,” says Petey in a hushed voice. 

“Can I go down on you,” Brock blurts out. “Will you let me —”

“Oh,” says Petey, “Yes —” and Brock buries her nose in the crease of Petey’s thigh, takes a deep heady breath of her musk and sweat. She pushes Petey’s legs back, licks her thoroughly, messily. Pauses to breathe. Her arms are shaking a bit. “Fuck, I really want to make you come.”

“Oh my god,” says Petey faintly.

Petey holds her breath as Brock goes down on her, almost like she’s trying to keep herself from moving. Brock feels the tight, tiny movements of her hips. Petey draws in a breath. Brock really wants to shove her skinny ass over a pillow and fuck her. She wants everything at once.

Petey clutches Brock’s shoulder as she sucks on her clit. “Okay, sweetheart, yeah,” says Brock, and reapplies herself, gentle, until Petey comes, shiveringly.

Petey recovers her breath for a few seconds, hands tentative on Brock's shoulders. Then she leans down to hug Brock like a limpet.

“What can I do?” 

“Oh, fuck,” says Brock, too stupidly turned on to form sentences but not wanting to just shove herself against Petey’s thigh to get off, and reaches her hand out blindly for her dressing table drawer.

She hands the vibe to Petey and turns it on. “Just — here —” and Petey figures it out pretty fucking quick.

“Can I touch you?” says Petey, other hand hovering near her cunt.

“Yeah, fuck, put your fingers in me.”

Petey pets against Brock’s cunt and slides her fingers in, her clever, nimble, million-dollar fingers, which she curves up and — “Do it the way you like,” says Brock, “Whatever you like is good, I’m — it’s pretty easy to get me off.”

She looks down at Petey’s sharp little face, her look of intense concentration like she’s breaking _this_ down into twelve separate components to individually practice later — “Oh —” says Brock, and shakes as she comes, more from Petey’s full, focused attention on her than anything else.

Brock reaches out to touch Petey’s mouth, her full lower lip.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” says Petey, her mouth barely moving under Brock’s fingers.

“Be hard for you to do something I didn't like,” says Brock, barely a breath, transfixed.

“Okay,” says Petey. “Can we do that again?”

“Okay, you fucking monster,” says Brock, “but I’m starving. Can we at least eat breakfast first?”

Petey breaks into giggles. Brock takes a deep breath, feels her lungs fill. She feels like she's brimming over. She hauls Petey up to hug her and laughs until she can get up.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from (what else) "Zombie" by The Cranberries. R.I.P. Dolores.
> 
> [This is Petey's dress](https://www.net-a-porter.com/en-us/shop/product/gucci/crystal-embellished-bow-detailed-velvet-dress/1084513). Her bag is, of course, the [Chloé Tess](https://www.farfetch.com/ca/shopping/women/chloe-small-tess-shoulder-bag-item-14478963.aspx?storeid=9672).


End file.
